


Reunion

by deadlybride



Series: the Full House of Wincest [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (arguably), Consensual Underage Sex, Dysfunctional Family, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: John and Dean settle back together after some time apart.





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> for my 'Full House of Wincest' bingo card for the variations on how this could go, this fills the square 'Neutral John'.

Dad’s finally home, and he’s drunk. Or—well, maybe more like halfway there. Dean doesn’t see him all the way wasted, hardly ever. Not anymore.

“C’mere,” Dad says. He’s slouched back on the little creaky loveseat shoved into the corner of the room, under the window. Sammy’s sound asleep on the farther bed, making those little snuffly sounds that count as snoring for him.

“Dean,” Dad says, and it’s no louder, it’s not even close to an order, but Dean stands right up anyway. He leaves the knife he’d been honing on the table and takes the half-dozen quiet steps and, when he’s close enough, Dad reaches out his free hand and reels him in, two fingers hooked into a belt loop, tugging, so that Dean climbs right onto the couch, settles his knees on either side of Dad’s hips and settles down easy. He sets his hands flat on Dad’s chest, and sighs. It’s been a while.

“You been good?” Dad says. He keeps his fingers hooked at Dean’s waist.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, of course,” he says, quiet. They’re always quiet, late at night like this. He settles his weight more comfortably into Dad’s lap. “Sammy’s all mad because the reading list for fifth grade here is the same as it was for fourth grade back in Poughkeepsie.”

“It’ll leave him more time for PT.” Dad tugs harder at Dean’s belt loop, just a little rough, and Dean sits up straighter. “Didn’t ask about Sam, kiddo.”

Dean looks down. Dad’s shirt is old, but soft, and he spreads his hands out on it, pretends like he’s looking at the faded USMC logo. “Got in a fight last week,” he says, finally. No sense in lying. Dad always sees right through it, anyway. “Kid was bein’ a jerk, messing with these girls.”

There’s a clink, Dad setting his glass on the side table, and then his palm’s on the side of Dean’s face, his thumb pulling at where Dean didn’t realize he’d been biting his lower lip. He closes his eyes and lets it go, and Dad’s thumb runs soft over where he’d dented it. His face gets turned, a little more toward the lamplight, and he knows Dad can see, now, where he’s got the last traces of the shiner fading down to yellow-green around his eye, the scrape on his jaw where he’d hit the ground hard before he came up and let Scott really have it.

“You win?” Dad says, after a minute, and Dean scoffs and opens his eyes, and finds that Dad’s smiling, just a little bit, just enough that Dean bets only he could really tell, and something in the bottom of his belly goes all pleased, squirming pleasantly.

“You win?” Dean says, because Dad was gone for over two weeks this time, and he doesn’t look bruised up or hurt at all, really, but. Dad nods, his eyes dark and still on Dean’s face, and that’s probably all Dean’s going to get, at least for now. He’ll have to see how Dad writes the hunt up, later.

Dad’s thumb traces over Dean’s cheek, rough familiar callus moving soft over his skin, and he finally unhooks his fingers from Dean’s belt, slides his hand big and warm and steady around to the small of Dean’s back and lets it rest there, heavy. Dean blinks at him, takes a deep breath. Dad smells a little bit like booze, ‘cause he always does when they’re like this, but also like smoke, and a little like sweat, and also just—like Dad. Dean doesn’t know how to describe it any better than that. Dad frowns, just for a minute, and for a second he looks like he’s going to say something, his expression going all distant and tight, and—Dean shuffles in closer, slides his hands up to Dad’s shoulders, and then he’s—he’s sitting right on top of where—and, yeah, the hand on his back hitches him even closer, and Dad’s eyelids flutter, and then he’s focused right back on Dean, right here in the motel room where he’s meant to be. Dean takes in a shaky breath and Dad’s thumb moves over his lip again, harder this time.

“Okay, kiddo?” Dad says, only he’s not really asking. Dean nods anyway, immediately, and licks his lips, and watches Dad’s eyes drop to them. Maybe—maybe tonight—and then Dad tugs him forward and Dean curls right down and then he’s being kissed, steady and good, Dad’s beard scratching pleasantly over his lips and chin and where his cheeks are still soft. He stretches out over the broad plane of Dad’s chest and Dad’s arm curls steadily around his waist, and he’s still awkward, doesn’t really know what to do with his tongue, but Dad doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t know if they’ll finally  _do_  anything, either, but maybe this is enough, anyway. Dad’s softer, like this, and it’s nice—the gentle warmth of their mouths, the whiskey taste of Dad. Dean likes it better from his mouth than he does from the bottle. Even better, when Dean pulls back for a second to breathe, the way Dad’s hand curls over the back of his neck and the way his face is soft, relaxed, and the way when his eyes open they immediately find Dean’s and Dean can tell he’s thinking of nothing but this, nothing but him, and Dean smiles, can’t help it, and leans down to keep Dad’s attention right here.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/164498626614/for-the-love-of-all-unholy-things-stop-tagging)


End file.
